


Counterpoint

by orphan_account



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Smut, Friendship, M/M, Other, Past Abuse, Slow Build, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, oc is not a mary sue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-08-16 08:41:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8095486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Toki and Skwisgaar have along history of mutual contempt; they've settled into a routine of bickering and avoidance. But after so long denying what they mean to each other, the ties that bind them have reached breaking point. What does the introduction of a stranger - a new friend - mean for their relationship?





	1. Chapter 1

_"Ami, pardonne-moi,_

_Cette clef t'ouvrira ma loge, sou-_  
_viens-toi ! . . . "_

_Oui, Ton devient digne d'envie,_

_Quand, brise par I'amour, on porte_  
_aux cabarets_

_Et ses espoirs et ses regrets !"* (-'Les Contes D'Hoffmann', Offenbach.)_

 

“Alright gentlemen, ah, if you could just...just please stand still. I’m sure this won’t take much longer. William, can you just put down the burger? Please?"”

“Shcrew you, Charlesch- I’m hungry! I don’t like the way thesche aschholes are touching me up anywaysch! Hey!”

Murderface drove his knee into the crotch of an unsuspecting tailor who had made the mistake of attempting to measure his inner leg. Offdensen pinched the bridge of his nose and and tried to push down the perpetually stoked coals of his frustration to a place deep, deep within himself. He was an old pro at repression. Dethklok did that to a man.  

As the injured tailor staggered from the room Nathan let out a guttural sigh.

“Are suits really necessary?” He asked.

“Yes, Nathan. It’s a Charity Gala and Dethklok are the guests of honour…so you need to be appropriately attired. Just go with it. Okay?”

Pickles snorted, “Yeah, well, what if the reason they invited us in the first place was because we would’t be? Appropriately attired, I mean? Maybe they just want us as we are: metal, y’know?”

They all made affirming noises at that.

“Guys,” Charles said exhaustedly, feeling this might be a good time to change the subject entirely, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you all about something. A...personal matter.”

“Oh gods,” lamented Skwisgaar, as a measuring tape was wound around his slender midriff, “What’s ams these obsessions with the poisonals issues nowadays? Why can’ts we just keeps it alls professkionals?!”

“Ja! Why nots keeps it alls just above de boards?”

“Shuts up, Tokis.”

“Why don’t yous shuts up, Skwisgaar?”

Skwisgaar turned his attention back to Offdendsen, “Charles we dont’s, you knows, really cares about you problems. Maybes we could avoids this whole stickies siktuations if we just keeps ons not carings about each other, ja? Ams easier that ways."

“I can assure you,” Charles said using one of his most placating gestures, “It’s, ah, fully ‘above board’ and professional. I simply wanted to ask you all for a favour. My niece, you see, is among other things a composer and she needs a place to record her work for the performative aspect of her postgraduate music certificate. I was hoping that she might be, ah, welcome here. At Mordhaus.”

There was a deathly pause, punctuated only by the swish of measuring tapes moving over clothing.

It was Murderface who broke the silence.

“Is she hot?”

“Dood!” 

“What? I have a right to know, if thisch chick’sch gonna be all up in out perschonal schpace ’n’ all...“

 William started to look creepily contemplative as he trailed off. 

“Ugh. Murderface,” groaned Nathan, “No chick is ever 'up in your space', anyway. Whatever. Just stop. Please.”

Offdensen rolled his eyes.

“Thank you Nathan. And no, Murderface, I am not going to validate your misogyny with a response.. She’s my niece, for crying out loud!” 

Charles began to pace in front of the five band members who were still standing spreadeagled before their respective tailors, “My niece, Michèle, has had a pretty bad time lately thanks to her mother - my, ah, sister. I don’t exactly have the, ah, easiest family to get along with. But as your manager I was hoping you could find it in your hearts, just this once, to go along with me and let Michèle stay here for the summer so she can use our recording facilities. Session vocalists and musicians are easily available to us here, and the kid needs a break.”

Toki, who had been unusually quiet, burst a pink gum bubble over his chin and eyed Charles silently. Nathan shifted uncomfortably in the aftermath of Charles’ request.

“I really wish you’d, y’know, not bring family crap into the workplace environment, Offdensen,” Nathan growled, "I mean, every time family gets involved the shit hits the fan, And feelings…don’t try to appeal to our sense of charity, man, ‘cause it won’t work. Family and Metal are like…chalk and churros or whatever the fuck that..that saying is…I dunno.”

“Cheesche?” Offered Murderface who was currently sucking some off his thumb.

“Cheese. Churros. Whatever,” Nathan folded his arms over his chest, “I think I've made my point.”

Charles nodded patiently, “I see. So, I suppose you won't be glad to hear that she’s already on her way over from England?”

Nathan shoved his tailor guy out of the way and stepped toward Charles.

“Fuck! What? Why why d’you even bother asking if you’d already decided and shit! This sucks!”

“Ja, dis is totallys dildos-“

“Send that chick back!”

Charles smiled, he knew that it wasn’t half as bad as Nathan made it out to be. The man simply relished bluster.

“I did that because I knew you’d say no…but if you really, really don’t want to do this for me-“

Nathan and Skwisgaar glanced at each other, 

“-after all the scrapes and disasters I’ve pulled this band out of-“

Nathan looked at his shoes and scowled,

“-and the hours and hours I spend managing your accounts, and lawyers, and accidents and compensation suits-“

Toki (who seemed to be ignoring Charles) punched Murderface roughly in the arm after he tried to wipe his burger-greased hands on Toki’s shirt-

“Well, “ Charles continued, “Then I suppose I’ll just have call Michèle and tell her that her dreams and hard work are all for nothing and that she can’t use one of our MANY studios. Because Dethklok won’t give a favour to their grade A manager. Fine. By which I mean - as your manager I don’t even need to ask permission.”

“Arghghh!! Okay, okay! Sounds’d fine. Ugh- just stop talking about this. Fuck!”

Toki glanced at Charles and shrugged, “I don’t minds either way, Charles. I bets it won’t be so bad having another ladies arounds the place! Like Abigails- she’s so nice about everythings…”

“No! Dis ams dildos, Tokis! Having de live-ins ladies arounds is bad for creatives process….somethkings you aments knows anythings about, of course. Why does I evens try tellings you dis? Is like talking to a monkeys anyways-”

As the tailors finally shuffled out of the room, Toki tugged nonchalantly at a patch of bubblegum plastered to his sleeve and shot an all-too-calculated smirk at his mentor.

“You’s a monkey, Skwigaar.”

“NO I’M NOT!”

—

It had gone pretty smoothly, for a Dethklok debate. The conversation - as full as it was with inappropriate assumptions and suggestive vitriol - had been blessedly short. But then, Charles' expectations of efficiency and reasonableness had been set very low for a long time. Occasionally he could still be pleasantly surprised when he got his way, though.

He’d cleared his niece’s visit with the label weeks ago, of course, but there was no need to chip away at Dethklok’s sense of autonomy…in reality they had precious little of it left, and Charles had no intention of upsetting the delicate balance of ill-adjusted personalities congregated at Mordhaus. It was all a little to fragile, at times, which made him wonder: was it wise to bring Michèle into the mix? He dismissed the worry. Exposure to different people and things was a positive thing for Dethklok, so long as Charles was there to mitigate any...problems that may arise. 

Though the antics and frequent sexism of the band was a concern, he knew everything that happened within these walls. Besides, Michèle was an Offdensen by blood. She could take care of herself.

He had a spring in his step as he turned the corner and started down the vast, polished concrete corridor that lead to the front gate. 

Michèle was the only member of his family he really liked…the only one who was actually decent and, dare he say it, normal. -ish.  That she was engaged with music on an academic level was great for him, as he got to build bridges with a family member where none had ever existed before. He had to wonder where Michèle had even come from: being the offspring of his awful older sister Agnes and her odious husband. It was a bit of a mystery, he'd decided, but thanked goodness for small mercies. 

As he approached, Charles motioned for the two Klokateer guards flanking the massive doors to admit the visitor. The mighty doors swung back slowly, groaning on their hinges.

“Hello Michèle - it’s so good to see you again. I hope your journey was comfortable?”

He held himself back a bit, not wanting to be intrusive, but the slender, tallish brunette dropped her bag immediately and closed the distance between them rapidly. She hugged him tightly around the neck. 

“Uncle Charley! Oh my god, it’s been so long! Thank you so, so much for letting me visit!“

Charles pulled back, smiling a smile of genuine gladness (something he’d not done for weeks, he realised).

“Michèle! You’ve not changed a bit. I’m very glad that I could help,” he nodded to the Klokateer on his right to pick up his niece’s bag, and slung an arm about Michèle’s shoulders as they started down the corridor, “I’ve listened to your work. I must say, the sounds you’re exploring are really great. It’s nice to hear someone who doesn’t curtail their musical interests according to what’s fashionable. I hope you will let me read your thesis when you’ve completed it?”

Michèle grinned somewhat bashfully. Modesty! What a refreshing thing to see…

“Charles, you’re very kind, but you can’t honestly want to read the bloody thing. I’m sick to death of it myself…”

“Oh I know, I know. I broke the golden rule already didn’t I? Never ask a doctoral student about how the thesis is coming along. My apologies.”

Their talk was interrupted by a bemused yowl emanating from the carrier the Klokateer was hefting along behind them.

“You, ah, brought your cat?”

Michèle’s eye widened in sudden remembrance, and she stooped to pet her discomfited feline's paw through the wire mesh of his carrier,  “Oh my god, is that ok? I’m sorry - I arranged a friend to take him, but she pulled out at the last minute. Since you sent the Dethkopter, I thought it would be ok. No quarantine etcetera. I’m so sorry if I screwed up…I didn’t know what else to do-”

“No, no - it’s fine. We’ll make sure he gets what he needs. Hm. Toki will be glad to meet him, that’s for sure.”

her eyes brightened incredulously, “Toki Wartooth likes cats?"

They continued for a few moments in companionable silence, the click of their heels echoing off the hard, tall surfaces of the brutalist architecture.

Michèle drew a breath and paused, she seemed to be working up to something.

“So…I hope that it really is okay if I stay here? I mean, okay with the band? I honestly won’t get their way. I hope they don’t entirely hate the idea of me hanging around?”

Charles huffed a little laugh and shook his head, “They’re certainly a handful, but it’s fine. Really. I spoke with them all yesterday and I’m sure things will go smoothly. You might have a vague idea of what they can be like…but really, they’re not as terrible as some people make out. Perhaps. Hmm.”

“Good to know,” Michèle arched a wry brow at her Uncle’s legendary diplomacy.

“It’ll actually do them good to meet you, I think.”

“Oh wow. Well. No pressure then.”

“It’s ok. They won’t be up for another three hours.”

“But it’s already eleven!”

“Yeah. That’s Death Metal for you. Oh - Toki is an early riser…I think it was pretty much, ah, ingrained in him as a kid, though.”

“Ok. Oh, wow, look at that- that’s incredible!” she exclaimed, staring at the sudden space before them. It reminded her a little of the foyer at the Tate Modern, back in London.

They had risen far above the entrance level now, up a grand sweeping staircase until they were walking in a heady perimeter around the main Hall via a dramatic hanging gallery. The whole space was decorated artfully with tattered red and black curtains.

"Those Chandeliers are amazing. Neo Gothic just doesn’t cover it, huh?”

Charles chuckled. 

Eventually they found their way into the main living quarters, and Charles took her down one of the three main corridors that housed Mordhaus’ bedrooms. They stopped abruptly three doors down outside a room entitled the “Chamber of Contemplation". 

“Here we are,” Charles unlocked the door and handed the rather ornate brass thing to Michèle, “It’s the least diabolical sounding rooms we have. Thought you’d appreciate that.”

Michèle smiled wryly.

Inside, the room was spacious and plush, decorated in neutral colours and a deep cream carpet. High ceilings, a double bed, tall windows and an ensuite off to the left…it was lovely. Michèle’s baggage had already been placed by the bed.

“This is massive! Thank you! I can’t wait to see the rest of this place.”

“I’ve arranged for a tour this afternoon. Sadly I have meetings to attend, people to see..”

“…a wife to murder and Guilder to frame for it. You’re swamped. No worries.”

Charles appreciated the Princess Bride reference and nodded happily. “Precisely. But the Klokateers will provide anything you need…and I’m sure the guys will be around the place too, if you want to make, ah, new friends.”

Michèle looked only slightly intimidated by the prospect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * "Friend, forgive me,  
> This key will open to you my box, remember!..."  
> And yes-  
> Your tone becomes worthy of envy  
> For when love breaks through,  
> It carries a cabaret of its hopes and regrets"


	2. Chapter 2

“Ands where ams she nows? We don’ts even knows, right? Coulds be anywheres, dis miniatures Offdensens goil!”

Skwisgaar doubled the tempo of his silent shredding and released a tense breath, “Is annoyingks me! We aments wanted more bossies peoples like Offdensens livings with us! Ams dildos!”

“Yeah!” Murderface chimed in, "Thisch totally schucks! I mean…Offdenschen is pretty boring... scho thisch girl can’t be much better, right?Juscht our luck to get sshtuck livin' with another freakin’ Offdenschen, Jeschus..!”

“I dunnos,” said Toki distractedly: he was preparing a monstrous pile of carrot sticks in the kitchen (much to the disgust of his band mates) “Wes not evens mets her yets! Maybes she not so bads? Maybe she real cool! I likes Offdensens reallys a lot- he ams good guys.“

“Pfft.”

Pickles wandered a little unsteadily into the common area, clutching a bottle to his chest, and collapsed on the couch,“You gheys actually seen her yit? One of the Klokateers told me she’s reeeeal nice. Apparently she was super polite to the ghey who carried all her stuff-”

“Polite?” Nathan’s voice took on an edge of contempt, “Not metal, guys. Lame.”

“Weeell,” intoned Pickles, taking a long pull from his beer, “didn’t Offdensen say she was English? Kinda figures. I giss what I’m trying’ te say is: Toki’s right. Let’s just give her the benefit of the doubt, okey?”

There was pause.

“I hates Enkglands. Ams full of bads food and borings ladies.” Skwisgaar contributed, scowling into the middle distance.

“Really? I kinda like that accent - y’know? It’s all sophisticated. Kinda cool.”

Toki edged into the sitting area balancing a plate of crudités precariously on the arm of his chair.

“I has only seen Londons-“ said Toki, “buts I likes the fancy costume television dramas they has…with the dresses and horses... stuffs like dat. Mister Darcy's…fancy jackets and dancingks parties. Pretty cools! I like to maybes gets one jackets like dat kinds-"

“Ugh, Tokis- you watches does costumes dramas? You's getting less brutal every days, I swears."

Toki rolled his eyes and started dipping his carrots into a jar of gravlax mustard. “Yeah well screws you, Skwisgaar. I likes de cool clothes and romantikal senskibilities. Real good for my Engklishes too! Maybe Charles’ niece is a real great Engklish ladies and not bossies at all!”

But it was a female voice that responded to Toki’s comment:

“Oh, well..no I wouldn’t say that!” it said, "Too much to live up to, you know?”

They all pivoted to peer at the newcomer - a girl who was standing uncertainly in the doorway.

“Hej,” said Skwisgaar, “you must bes Michèles?”

He moved neatly into the space beside Toki, gesturing that she sit also. As he lowered himself down, Skwisgaar noticed that Toki seemed to be appraising the girl’s appearance a little too avidly for his liking, and he fought to suppress the spark of jealousy that ignited within him. He huffed and manoeuvred the plate of carrots onto Toki’s lap.

Michèle had moved smoothly into the now-vacant chair and began to cross and re-cross her legs nervously, chattering about the weather and boring shit like in-flight food. So damned English it was almost painful.

“Nice to meet you, Michèle!” Pickles said pleasantly, though belatedly (blame the beer) - saluting her with his drink.

“Thank you.”

Skwisgaar just sat back and continued his fret work. The girl was cast from a different mold to the ladies they usually hosted at Mordhaus. She wasn’t dressed in clothes designed to allure, for starters. She was slender, though. Boyish, tall and pale with long dark hair... Skwisgaar smirked. He was enjoying this game of observation. Trying to unpack personality from appearance was one of his little pleasures. What else? Tight grey jeans, laced ankle boots and a faded t-shirt sporting an image of David Bowie. Her cropped bomber jacket suited her frame (which was androgynous to the point of resembling that of a seventeen year old boy who yet to grow into his bones - a bit like Toki in the early days...)

But it was her face and hands that Skwisgaar found most striking: Strongly winged dark brows, a prominent bone structure and large eyes...and nimble, long-fingered hands that sported cropped nails and flattened fingertips. Musician's hands. Those Skwisgaar could spot a mile off. In all, her features danced on the cusp between pretty and intense, and she spoke with a reserved yet melodious charisma that she deployed easily and uncalculatedly. By the looks of things, the guys seemed to enjoy being on the receiving end of her attention, which she lavished unselfishly.

Skwisgar felt his competitive nature rankle.

“Hej, Tokis,” Skwisgaar spoke up for the first time in several minutes, “Her hair ams de sames colours as yours! You two ams basicallys twins sisters, den. Ha. It’s a laugh.” His lips curled in amusement, “And Pickle, I think she ams a littles tallers dan you- talls for a lady, eh? Hows talls ams you, Michèles?“

"Um. 172...I think?"

"Dat ams tallers dan Pickle-"

Nathan yawned. "Not everyone can be a long drink of water, Skwisgaar."

"Waters aments persons, Nathans. Makingks no senses nows-"

"Ugh."

Toki quirked a grimace at Skwisgaar and fished another carrot from his pile.

Pickles started to snore in his corner.

Nathan grumbled something about Skwisgaar being Swedish and having no socialised word filters in place. But Skwisgaar knew precisely what he was doing, though he veiled it in the convenience of a language barrier. Michèle merely looked a bit dazed by it all and laughed off the litany of Skwisgaar's odd observations, turning to the Swede with an open expression.

“So... Skwisgaar Skgigelf, right? I’m actually a lot more excited to meet you than I look. Thanks so much for letting me stay. Uncle Charley said you had some reservations about it all, so I’m really grateful.”

“Uncles…Charleys?” Toki piped up in a tone that was half amused, half disbelieving. Michèle grinned.

“I usually just call him Charles. Umm…hey, this a really amazing place you have, by the way...”

“Ja, whatevers. What ams it agains you will be doingks here, preskisely?”

Skwisgaar was nothing if not direct.

“Skwisgaar! Dat ams rudes, just wadings in and changing all de subjects of converskations!!” Toki exclaimed, “…sorries. So..umm..does you plays music?” he asked.

“Yep! A few instruments. Some better than others, for sure. But I guess my strengths are singing…and piano. But I...I’m finishing a compositional course alongside doctoral studies right now. It’s why I’m here: I need to record my stuff and Charles is doing me a massive favour letting me use your facilities.” She explained, her glance evading Swisgaar's unflinching gaze.

Murderface shrugged indifferently at that, offering his penny’s worth without hesitation. “Whatsch the point in all that academic shit, if you ain’t got money! College is for suckers, schweetheart, unlessch you actually like being zombified..scheesh.”

“Hey, who wants another beer?!” cried Pickles by way of intervention - he had revived somewhat and was listening to the exchange with growing discomfort.

“Oh god yes.” Muttered Michèle, and quite involuntarily Skisgaar thought to himself: _She ams okays._

—

Two hours later Michèle was both relieved and drunk. She’d removed her boots and jacket and was sitting cross-legged on the floor by the couch, swigging whatever it was that Pickles had thrust into her hands. This was ok. They were ok. A little wall-eyed, upfront and arrogant about a bunch of stuff, but nothing truly heinous. She had her eye on Murderface, though. But he seemed to have a good heart. Maybe.

“How old ams you, Michèles?” Toki asked suddenly.

Michèle finished the dregs of her ( _third_?) beer unsteadily ( _what a lightweight_ ) and hummed, “Twenty seven. And still a student...“

“Oh, wowee! We ams de same age! You had your boithday alreadies?”

“In March, actually.”

“I’m’s older than you then. My twenty-eights boithday ams comings next month! Gonna have a real cool party and invites all my friends!”

Skwisgaar chuckled, “Pffft. You aments gots no friends, Tokis.”

“Well, neither’s you, Skwisgaar,” Toki’s tone was accusatory, but brightened immediately when he thought a little more about it, “But we knows plenties of peoples who cans come..will be so cool !"

There was something charmingly irrepressible about Toki Wartooth: he was as transparent as glass, but it was clear that he could draw a curtain down over his thoughts quite effortlessly if he wanted to. Michèle had discovered this when she'd casually asked about his home back in Norway (she’d always loved the language and mythology of the place). All at once, though, Toki shut down, the shadow of something dark flitting across his usually bright expression.

Right now, however, the effervescent Norwegian was all grins and questions. They got on really well; drank some shots, talked about rollerskating and music… even played tandem Dance Dance Revolution until they collapsed. So far so good! Michèle found it fantastic to simply not think too much for once. The others were nice, too, though ‘nice’ did’t really cover the complexity of the dynamic they had together.

After a robust discussion with Nathan regarding the issue of food in England, he had wandered off to the kitchen with Murderface to find snacks (whilst berating Toki for slacking off in his band duties). Pickles was dozing peacefully, his ever-present bottle of beer propped under his chin. Skwisgaar sat on the couch quietly shredding away, eyes intent as he listened to the conversation unfolding between the two youngsters who sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him.

“Skwisgaar’s boithday ams comings soon toos,” said Toki confidingly.

“Ja. It ams soon,” the Swede confirmed, "I will ams be thoirty six, dis times,” Skwisgaar flexed his fingers and shifted in his seat, a smug expression playing on his ageless face, “But don’ts looks a days over twentys!”

Michèle squinted at the long-limbed, elf-like guitarist. What he said was kind of true. She laughed. “Twenty five, I'd say. Well. I did hear rumours about your immortality, Skwisgaar…all true, evidently.”

He veritably preened at the compliment, “It ams true, Michèles... I ams indeeds a god of guitars. Who knows how longs I will lives? Perhaps forevers?”

Toki blew out his cheeks and rolled his eyes. “Nots dis dildos agains, Skwis!” And then he put down his drink and cocked his head at Michèle, a slow, friendly smile spreading across his face.

“You ams got such a nice soundings voice. I likes the Engklish sounding Enkglish. Really cools. Maybes now mine can gets betters with you around!” He paused. "Does you likes cats too?”

Perhaps it was the alcohol affecting her, but in that moment - with their knees barely touching as they lounged against the sofa - Toki looked like...something. Something _good_. He was obviously fit and handsome…? No, scratch that. _Beautiful_. In a quite objective sense: the guy was stunning. And so un-self-conscious about it...

 _Oh shit,_ thought Michèle as she caught herself focussing a little too intently on Toki’s mouth as he talked about inconsequential things (gift-wrap? Clowns?) _I’m fucking drunk. Five hours into my stay and I’m fucking drunk on the floor with fucking Dethklok. Fabulous._ A pause. _I want to watch him play._

“-I’m fucking drunk.” Oh. She’d said that out loud. Oops.

“Alreadies?!” Chorused the Scandinavians.

She merely nodded, slumping a little as the booze began to catch up to her in a rush of slow-motion disembodiment.

“I’m, oh god…I’m such a light-weight. Can’t drink for toffee.”

“Toffees?” Another chorus.

“Not even one,” she said absently, before giving Toki a quizzical look, and grinning. “can I touch your moustache? it looks so different up close...did you grow it to look older?"

Skwisgaar snorted and tossed Toki another bottle, nodding at her with shrewd encouragement, “Haves another beers, Michèle !” he said in a friendly. sing-song voice, "De nights is youngs…and you needs to builds up you’s tolerances if you wants to hangs out with us!”

But Toki turned the unopened bottle around in his hands, frowning thoughtfully as Michèle poked his face with her index finger.

He sighed, “Nej, Skwisgaar…Charles aments likes it if we makes her ill. Perhaps she shoulds gets some sleep now? Michèle aments one of those groupies goils...”

“Yes, I knows. Groupies has better tits.”

Toki scowled. Michèle snorted and clearly thought it was hilarious.

“Shuts up, Skwis! Charles will ams kills us if we gets her too drunks…C’mon Michèles! Times for sleepings!"

“Cats?” she slurred the words and grimaced. She seemed to be about twenty seconds behind real-time. Was there was something she’d forgotten…?

Suddenly she lurched forwards, manic-eyed and distraught, “MELKOR!” she yelled, and scrambled for the exit.

“Melkors?!” The two men chorussed.

No answer.

“Melkor ams brutals.” Toki said solemnly, watching Michèle carefully.

“What ams it?”

“Froms the Skilmarillons I ams thinkings…totallys metal. Everybody dies. Is awesome."

Michèle was struggling to find her boots, whose absence she’d only noticed when her feet hit the cold flagstone of the corridor. Scanning the room she mumbled incoherently to herself about cats and food.

“you reads the Skilmarillions?!” Skwisgaar asked in a disbelieving voice. Michèle fell over one of her shoes.

“Ja, in Norsk."

Peripherally Michèle was aware that the guys were discussing Tolkien. It was the last thing she heard as she stumbled once again, and this time passed out on the carpet. _Perfect._


	3. Chapter 3

Pale sunlight flickered through unseen leaves, dappling the bedspread and its occupant with shifting shadows. Michèle groaned and scrubbed at her face with a sweaty hand. She felt terrible, as if a truck had run her over in the night: a truck filled with something heavy and unpleasant…like raw meat.

What the hell had she been thinking?! Five beers. Seriously?! Her legendary sensitivity to alcohol at college had always been a tender spot for the young composer.

She sat up, but immediately felt nauseous.The last thing she remembered from last night was calling for Melkor. Then nothing. Painfully and delicately she transferred her weight to her feet and tried to stand up - only to discover that she was wearing a pair of pyjamas several sizes too large, whose buttons were done up wrong.

What the actual fuck?

Had someone changed her clothes last night?! The bottom dropped out of her stomach, and she rushed (or at least did a hung-over approximation of a rush) for the bathroom. She languished there a while, heaving into the porcelain bowl, noting vaguely that she was at least still wearing her underwear: whomsoever had changed her clothes last night didn't get to see everything.

Well that was _something,_ at least.

She craned her neck to read the alarm clock on the bedside table. 10 am. She decided to sit on the bathroom floor for a bit and collect herself. Dethklok was really fucking brutal after all: unexpectedly okay to get on with, but hard drinkers. And a bit dickish at times.

She was still wary of Skwisgaar: he was as sharp and direct as he was beautiful. But his appearance meant that people endured his arrogance with grace. Murderface and Nathan were kind of intimidating, though - in very different ways. Pickles she liked a lot: he had a ‘dad’ vibe about him, but was both erratic and diplomatic. And Toki? Her cheeks burned. Toki was…she shook her head and tried not to think about the possibility that it was he who had changed her clothes last night.

After a little while she managed to heave herself perpendicular again and start the shower. As the water warmed up she padded dumbly back into the bedroom to retrieve a glass tumbler that had been set by her bed. As she shed her enormous pyjamas on her way back into the bathroom, she noticed a note stuck to the doorframe:

_“Hej Michèle ! I donts have your numbers, so I ams writings you this note. You were drunks last night and puked loads over your clothes! Melkor is with me…he’s amazings! I fed him and everythings. I think we are friends alreadies! Sees you laters- TOKI. ps: you can keeps the PJs- I has lots of them :)”_

Mortification seeped into her very bones. She shook out her hair and plunged under the shower. As she stood under the numbing fall of thundering hot water, two simple words rose from the depths of her soul:

“Well. Shit.”

—

 

Toki had not been entirely surprised when Michèle passed out whilst hunting for her boots. She lay perfectly still, her pale skin glistening in the pallid light; dark hair tumbled over the floor. Toki and Skwisgaar tilted their heads in unison, assessing the gravity of the situation.

“Ja. Can'ts drinks for Toffees. I thinks she knows it. Is what she saids.” Skwisgaar observed.

“Ja.”

“Maybes she just sleeps it offs, den?"

But Toki wasn’t really listening: he was looking at the curve of the motionless body laid out before him, wondering how heavy she would be to lift. Not very, he surmised. He turned to Skiwsgaar then, and, emboldened by the alcohol flowing through his system, tentatively combed his fingers through the ends of his blond hair.

“Her skin reminds me of yous, Skwis. Is the sames colors,” he muttered gently. Skwisgaar’s expression softened minutely.

Checking that the others were either absent or unconscious, Skwisgaar leaned imperceptibly into Toki’s touch to feel the calluses of his long fingers brush against his neck. He hummed. Toki worried his bottom lip and searched Skwisgaar’s eyes, fingers settling into a gentle rhythm against his fluttering throat.

“You’ve not…visiteds me lately, Skwisgaar- I been wonderings why. Don’ts you miss me at all?”

“Whats?” Skwisgaar responded, his voice low and his guard rising, “I sees you every day, Tokis. You means all dat gays kissingks and huggings, eh? All dat babies stuffs?” He curled his lip into a smirk, "Aments means nothingks."

Toki clamped down on the creeping desolation that hollowed his chest from the inside: how could Skwisgaar be so cold? It was true that hugs and kisses (usually whilst inebriated) were so far the extent of their physical contact, but to Toki these moments with Skwisgaar carried much more significance than a mere drunken distraction.

Toki was used to being berated, belittled and ridiculed by the band - it was easy most of the time to let the ragging slide off him, because he knew that ultimately they were a family and would always have his back - but Skwisgaar’s derision was a harder thing to hear. Toki's yearning for him felt rather like chasing the rainbow’s end…but barefoot and in sub zero temperatures. Which was a thing both painful and unfulfilling.

Over the years Toki had tried hard to quash his inclinations; partly due to the atmosphere of casual homophobia that Dethklok maintained, but also due to his own fears and contradictory self-expectations. Anything he might have felt for those who sparked a romantic interest in him he avoided: even though his desires usually only ever manifested in chaste hugging and making-out. But his penchant for long-limbed, androgynous beauties (be they male or female) always led him back to languishing over Skwisgaar. That longing never faded. So he steered clear of it all - or at least tried to.

Toki narrowed his eyes as he manoeuvred his fingers around Skwisgaar’s jaw, holding him firmly yet somehow tenderly. Skwisgaar released a ragged breath and blinked slowly.

A moment passed…then two.

Abruptly, Skwisgaar wrenched himself from Toki’s grasp and stalked towards the door. “Ams goingks to bed.” He said coldly.

Toki watched him go, the heat of frustration coiling dangerously within him.

Oh, but Skwisgaar seemed to relish the power he held over himi ! He basked in the attention just as surely as Toki craved it, teasing and bickering and berating him endlessly. Sometimes Skwisgaar came to Toki when he was too drunk or too bored to be bothered with the groupies, and would flirt with him, or dole out rationed affection in the form of intimate touches and embraces. It was a unique kind of torture for Toki, who was a creature whose emotions ran deep; deeper, even, than his crippling self-doubt and pain.

Toki truly felt doomed to be forever denied the affection of the one he adored.

He wished he could cut out that part of himself, somehow, and be willing and capable to simply fuck groupies and get off on vanilla sex. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. And in some wretched, crappy corner of his psyche he was still repulsed by the notion that he often found men a more attractive prospect than women; that he longed to control and dominate them; that he found both curvaceous porn stars and girls-next-door equally uninteresting.

No.

Toki’s needs were a thing apart: a paradox at once both light and dark, naive and twisted. He wanted to dream about kittens and candy all night long and then wake up, tie his partner to the bedstead and fuck them into the mattress. But a deep-rooted prejudice still festered within him - a prejudice instilled from birth - and though he knew better than to cling to absolutist notions of morality and religious bull crap, a deep sense of guilt never failed to pervade him when, alone and late at night, he would indulge his deeper fantasies.

“Mmmnn...”

Michèle stirred from her stupor on the floor, wrenching Toki from his musings. She sat up, looked around unsteadily…and vomited down her front. She looked like shit.

Toki sighed. A cursory tally of the room’s occupants confirmed the painfully obvious: he was the last man standing.

After summoning a Klokateer to clean up the mess, Toki hoisted the semi-conscious Michèle into his arms and carried her over to the guest wing. He had to try every door, but eventually picked the right one.

As he laid her on the bed he immediately spotted Melkor skulking by the window: a stunning cat with enormous ears, fur black as midnight and eyes green as grass. Toki grinned. Swiftly he took the cat back to his room and called up yet another Klokateer to feed the poor, grumpy feline while he rooted around in his closet for some old pyjamas.

When he returned to Michèle she was exactly where he’d left her. Apprehensively he pulled off her soiled t-shirt. She was waaaay gone - drifting in and out. A rag doll. Toki checked her pupils, her pulse - he remembered well how Pickles had done the same for him back in the day - and nodded, satisfied that she’d be ok.

Next, the jeans: they were tight and damp so he had to fight quite hard to peel them from her legs. The clothes were discarded down the laundry chute, and after he’d wiped her down with a wet towel and warmed her up with a dry one, he let his gaze wander ever so slightly from the task at hand.

She was wearing underwear, which was a blessed relief; black panties and bra that made her skin glow impossibly white in the half-light. He dabbed water from her shoulder, trying not to touch her with his bare hands. Her skin was smooth and slightly flushed from the alcohol; her body pleasingly athletic despite its slenderness. He liked the line of her jaw, he realised...the arch of her long neck...

“You has somethingks just likes dat fucking elfish, mythicals douchebags creature...” Toki murmured absently.

He swallowed hard and tried not to dwell on the fantasies of Skwisgaar that arose unbidden in his imagination. Methodically he clad Michèle in his old pyjamas and tucked her into the bed, leaving a glass of water on the table and a hasty note on the door.

By the time Toki retired to his room he was exhausted. He tumbled easily into a dreamless sleep atop his duvet, fully clothed, with a warm Melkor purring at his feet.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot of Introspective Skwisgaar in this chapter, I'm afraid. What can I say, I'm a sucker for psychological complexity!

Skwisgaar hadn’t lied when he'd walked away from Toki and their inebriated house-guest that evening: he’d fully intended to go to bed and get in a solid six hours. What he _hadn’t_ intended was to spend half the night tossing and turning heatedly, unable to shake the knowledge that he’d cold-shouldered Toki yet again; denying his attraction and lashing out in the most passive-aggressive way possible. It was second nature to him now, and Skwisgaar knew that this toxic behaviour came _way_ too naturally.

He glanced at his alarm clock and groaned: 6am. _Fuck._

Skwisgaar hated how whenever he had one of these ‘moments’ with Toki it took him days to find his equanimity again. It was a problem that belied the nonchalant attitude he’d fostered in a desperate bid to regard their dynamic rhythm guitarist as nothing more a band mate. Or at most a protégé. A really shit one.

But the reality of what truly lay between them, though largely unacknowledged, had always been...intimate in nature. Skwisgaar's interest in Toki went way beyond the bonds of mere band mates: when he was around Toki he lost control of his imagination. And if there was one thing that Skwisgaar Skwigelf could not abide, it was a loss of control.

He lay in the darkness of his room, stewing in his own juices, listening to the to-ing and fro-ing in the corridor beyond his door. Toki’s room was practically opposite his own and he could have sword he heard him mumbling away in sonorous Norwegian…why? Toki had not seemed overly drunk that night, so why would he be pacing the corridor and muttering to himself? Then Skwisgaar heard a plaintive, demanding yowl, in response to which Toki crooned incoherently. Ah. The cat. Toki _would_ be dealing with that.

It’s owner, though: she was another matter.

Skwisgaar tried to ignore the twist of jealousy in his gut when he thought of Offdensen's niece. Toki liked her. It was obvious. And why not? She was 5’8” of charisma and kindness; eminently fuckable and just Toki’s type. A little too much his type, Skwisgaar mused: perhaps that was why he felt particularly threatened by the girl. Oh, he’d joked about how she resembled Toki in certain ways (that hair…), but maybe - just maybe - she also reminded Skwisgaar of himself. Which was weird. It must be her physique, he decided. Most definitely _not_ the way she gazed glassy-eyed at Toki when she thought no one was watching…

But given the circumstances and relationship she bore to Offdensen, he knew it would be prudent for them all to consider the comely youth strictly off limits - which in itself probably made the prospect of seducing her all the more appealing. To Skisgaar, at any rate. Gods, he was a transgressive asshole: he’d do almost anything for a thrill, he knew, so long as he got to dictate the terms of engagement. And what of it? He was used to having his way, and comfortable in his ability to orchestrate his interactions with people. And things. And situations.

Until _he_ came along. _That fucker_.

When Toki Wartooth - a homeless, clueless teenager - had shuffled into the audition room ten years ago and blown them away with his playing, Skwisgaar felt something shift within him. It wasn’t a joyful, epiphanic moment for him - on the contrary, it was fucking terrifying. Never before had he experienced something so viscerally moving and _right_ between himself and another human being. Toki managed to evoke within him that elusive thing he was so accustomed to inspiring in others: reverence. He’d never admit it openly, of course, but Toki was a rare and gifted creature. His musical instincts were so raw and potent...it set Skwisgaar's teeth on edge just thinking about how good Toki might sound once he'd had a few lessons...

And for a moment, all that time ago, Skwisgaar had felt giddy - no, _nauseous_ \- with the vision of all they could accomplish together; of the possibilities that roiled between them, and how he could nurture Toki’s gift. Help him and guard him and keep him from the horrors of a world too corrupt for one as ridiculously gifted as he: _“I wants you in this band!”_ he’d exclaimed, and Toki had wept tears of joy in his arms.

But then Skwisgaar had paused. And thought. And he'd panicked. His jealousy was a powerful thing, and surely enough it followed hot on the heels of his wonder.

In the weeks following Toki's arrival in Dethklok, Skwisgaar fucked up roundly. He fucked up bad. And didn’t stop fucking up. Oh, how he regretted it now! For it wasn’t just a one time thing - a mistake or accident or crime of passion - No. He'd made a quite conscious decision to wear Toki down. To stunt his growth. To ensure that he was only ever 'good enough’ to play second fiddle to Skwisgaar’s genius. He had done the precise opposite of helping the kid develop: he’d waged a war on his already fragile self-esteem.

Thus did Skwisgaar swiftly find himself in a poisonous climate of his own making - by simple virtue of the fact that he’d been so fucking afraid of the feelings Toki evoked in him. He was afraid of many things, he realised: he’d always run from the things that scared him. He feared connection; he feared rejection; and he feared more than anything the thread of virtually irrepressible passion that now connected him to Toki.

And Toki (stupid, beautiful, talented, glorious Toki) _still_ looked at him like he was a fucking god; as though he’d gladly walk over coals for the chance to bask in Skwisgaar's shadow. Toki seemed to never cease counting his blessings. But even the most beneficent of souls will falter if starved of nourishment: Toki began to withdraw from the band; to skip rehearsals and slack off in his guitar practise. Everything Skwisgaar had selfishly wished to gain by his maltreatment of the younger musician began to snowball, and Toki became increasingly isolated and lackadaisical towards his music. Skwisgaar hated himself for what he'd turned him into, and Toki ended up hating him in return.

But when drunk and pressed for details, Toki would confess carelessly that his feelings for Skwisgaar were a lot more complex than they appeared. His confessions were always rough and resentful, though: usually taking the form of ramming Skwisgaar hard up against a wall to kiss him senseless - or working his fingers tightly around Skwisgaar's wrists as he impressed little bruises of fervour on the pale skin of Skwisgaar's neck…

Skwisgaar let him do it. Up to a point. He burned for Toki’s twisted adoration, for a touch that was by turns harsh and gentle and accusatory. But they never moved beyond these rough embraces. Never talked. For though Skwisgaar could fend Toki off with a well timed rebuke, or a little hauteur and faux disdain, it was abundantly clear that Toki had a hold over Skwisgaar as firm as any Skwisgaar had over him.  And he detested their shitty dynamic now - no matter how arousing - just as much as he detested how he had no choice in the nature of his feelings for Toki, nor even in the manner of their confrontations.

But for all the dysfunction that festered between them, Skwisgaar's affection for Toki had grown exponentially, and he began to realise that he...truly wanted him. Body and soul, he _wanted_ him, so fucking much. And not in the typical way: for as much as he yearned to posses Toki, he yearned equally to be possessed _by_ him. Once he'd admitted this to himself, Skwisgaar desperately redoubled his efforts to contain his needs, and to contain _him:_ to suppress him in a calculated bid to remain in control: increasingly co-dependant, and yet farther and farther apart. A bitter paradox, Skwisgaar knew, and grimaced at how strained the thread of fire between them had become.

What had he done? Oh, what had he done? It was an impossible situation, and all of his own making. His pride had wrought this nightmare. He had held himself aloof - always, always aloof. Always cold...

Skwisgaar realised suddenly that his face was wet.  What a fool.

He pushed aside the guilt and the longing, and tried desperately to train his mind on something else. Someone else.

Ah, there she was: deep, expressive eyes, almost golden in hue when the light caught them; a mobile mouth. Long, glossy chestnut hair; poker straight and unadorned...

...Just like Toki’s.

_Fuck._

If she were a guy she’d make a damn pretty one…

...Just like Toki.

_FUCK._

She’d probably be about six foot, and Skwisgaar would have a good four inches on her, just like...

…Toki.

_FUCKFUCKFUCK._

Skwisgaar leapt out of bed and grabbed up his guitar. It was going to be a very long night.

 

—

 

BY the time Michèle had showered, dressed and scraped her appearance into something that was half-way presentable, it was 11:30 am. Timidly she opened the bedroom door a crack and peered into the corridor. Silence reigned in the halls of Mordhaus. Good. The plan was to creep into the communal kitchen to fix some black coffee and the driest of dry toast, and then go to find her cat… and her uncle. In that order.

After breaking her fast she started to feel decidedly more human, and set off to find Melkor - who was supposedly in Toki’s room. She bit her lip. After her antics last night she was trepidatious about facing the Norwegian, especially considering that she remembered enough of the evening to recall feeling very attracted to the guitarist at one point (probably just before she passed out). The fact that Toki had had to deal with the whole 'vomit on clothing' situation, AND look after Melkor…well. Suffice it to say that Michèle s hands were sweating as she approached the room with a small plaque hanging from the door that read ‘Toki’s Room’ in bright lettering.

This was ok, right? Charles had said yesterday that Toki was the only band member who was an ‘early riser’, so he ought to be up by now…

Just as she raised her knuckles to knock softly, the door flew open and Michèle jarred-

“Toki!” she yelped.

“Wowee, Michèles!” Toki exclaimed, clasping at his heart in shock, “That was unexpecteds! Whoa..”

“I’m sorry! I..I thought you might be up, and…”

“No, is fines! - comes in if you like? I have Melkor! He was just taking a nap...”

Toki stood aside and Michèle shyly edged inside. She felt incapable of looking him in the face: this whole scenario felt excruciating! Toki had immediately started hunting about the room for the feline who’d usefully decided to choose this moment to make himself scarce. Michèle paused. Toki wasn’t dressed yet..he wasn’t ‘up’ at all: He was wearing some jogging bottoms and a black tank and very obviously still had mussed hair from sleeping.

She groaned inwardly. “Oh my god, Toki, I’m…I’m so sorry. You’re not actually up yet are you? I can come back later-“

“No is alrights! Look here ams Melkor-“ Toki straightened up, hefting the black cat into his arms, “He’s such a big softy. I really loves him. I was just going to goes and get somethingks to eat before my excorsikzes…”

He stepped forward and transferred the purring cat into Michèle’s waiting arms. She combed Melkor’s hair absently, and felt herself steady a little.

“Look, Toki. I…I have to apologise for last night. I feel like a complete moron,” she smiled remorsefully and finally dared a glance at the man who was scratching Melkor being the ear with a calloused index finger. She pressed on.

“I got your note. Obviously. And, well, ugh…I feel so mortified that you had to deal with me last night. Thank you so much for being great. I can’t believe I vomited-"

“-Yeps, you vomited a lot!” grinned Toki, “it was pretty brutal, to be honests. But you ams lucky I’m so de-skensitised to dat stuff now….we have a lot of vomitings in these parts.”

Michèle shook her head and laughed, “Well. You’re a star. Amazing. Thank you - for being such a gent.”

“What ams _gent_?”

“Oh. A gentleman.”

Toki, who had seemed utterly relaxed the whole time, suddenly blushed and looked evasive, “Aahaaahaa! We’ll, yeah, rights, dat’s what I ams- real gent- aments doing’ anythings bads evers, dat’s me!“

Michèle wondered how any man could possibly be so terrible at masking his embarrassment,“Yeah. It’s ok-“ she said, lightly, "I know you had to undress me. I…it’s fine. Really. I’m glad you did-”

Michèle suddenly realised that what she’d said might be misinterpreted. She hung her head: it was her turn to feel awkward. “I, uh, yeah. I’m gonna stop. Talking. Now. _Jesus_ …”

Toki then seemed to pass through several conflicting and complex emotions very quickly, and though her own embarrassment the only ones Michèle thought she could discern were amusement, concern, anxiety and…confusion? Toki was still caressing Melkor’s ears when his fingers inadvertently brushed against her own: a small frisson jumped down her spine and she withdrew her hand hastily.

“I ams…glad yous feelings betters.” Toki said more quietly, reaching for a hair tie and bundling up his chestnut lengths. “Okays, I really needs to go eat now! Perhaps we can catch up laters-real cools talking. Sees you laters!”

And off he went abruptly, leaving Michèle in the middle of his room, cradling Melkor. Only now did she pause to take in her surroundings: Toki’s bedroom was filled with dozens of carefully painted model aircraft, spaceships and planets - all suspended from the ceiling by invisible threads that swayed gently in the eddies of some unseen breeze. She smiled.


End file.
